Nowadays it's a bit more metrosexual, but only just, and after 5 days of that grime that never goes away I kissed goodbye to the capital and headed into the Kent countryside, the Garden of England, a mere 30 minutes south on the train, to smell the roses and see a man about a dog.
After 72 hours getting smashed in village hostelries (the ones that hadn't barred my notorious mate), smoking like a Jamaican and inspecting a fence that I built 25 years ago (still rock solid) I was back in a vibrant, hopping, ebullient London, the Stones and Chic were playing Hyde Park while I was staying in Holland Park this time - a tree-lined, graceful suburb, just north of Hyde Park - where the Serbian hotel receptionist offered me sex for 100 quid. The room was only 90. Times they are a changing. I declined her kind offer and went off to the Czechoslovak Pub in Hampstead to eat fried cheese and drink Budvar as well as to meet Flapper who, for reasons I now forget, then took me on a wild goose chase up to Pinner and Harrow where, for some other reason, we ended up getting pissed on a park bench, hooting with laughter and chit-chat while urban foxes rummaged in the undergrowth.
Sunday saw me roll up at Victoria bus station, knackered, and I was off to see Mother and Bonnie (the dog) out in the oh-so-peaceful boonies for a spot of rehab and as much bacon as I can eat. This part of the trip was highlighted with a production of The Titfield Thunderbolt by an amateur dramatics company whose cast had a lot of trouble remembering their lines, not that it mattered on such a sun-dappled, bucolic evening.